


These Fair, Well-Spoken Days

by Muffinworry



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 02:33:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14558955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muffinworry/pseuds/Muffinworry
Summary: He could have been a gardener, he thinks. He’d have liked that.





	These Fair, Well-Spoken Days

**Author's Note:**

> For Pinkcupboardwitch, who requested a fic where Queens Emira and Astrid sit down to tea together. It didn't quite end up that way.

***

Holland presses his back to the wall and stands straighter. The sunlight here always gives him a headache, but he can feel the warmth spreading down to his bones. It’s dangerously comforting, and he can’t afford to be distracted by luxuries right now. His orders were very clear.

The king and queen of Red London are bending over a letter, heads together. Maxim tucks a curl of black hair behind Emira’s ear, and she smiles as she writes. Holland eyes the writing automatically without turning his head. _Dear Sister_ , it begins, and he winces, knowing how that will be received at home. Suddenly he needs air, needs to be out of this jewel box of a room, needs to be away from these welcoming, trusting, people.

“If you have no need of me for a while,” he begins, and Maxim waves a hand casually. It’s a gesture so like Vortalis that Holland has to shut his eyes, but the man doesn’t seem to notice.

“Of course, of course. Feel free to wander the grounds. Kell will bring you our reply when it’s ready. A new beginning, eh?”

***

He could have been a gardener, in another life. Hands in the rich earth, watering seedlings, watching trees blossom and bear fruit.

Holland’s steps take him past the elegant palace gardens and into the woods beyond. It’s a carefully groomed illusion of wilderness: winding paths and dappled sunlight, rich acres of land stocked with game for royal hunts, rolling hills dotted with little marble follies where the court might sit with music and wine.

Beneath the trees, the air is cool and Holland lets himself breathe deeply. He runs a hand through his damp hair and slows his steps.

_You will watch these…royal neighbours of ours. You’ll report on their city, their weapons. Their weaknesses and secrets._ Astrid’s eyes, full of laughter. _And of course, you’ll convey our most heartfelt greetings and our wishes for, shall we say, unity?_

He can picture, all too easily, these forests and meadows overrun with corruption, withering and fading. Burnt and twisted branches, barren fields. And the bones everywhere, bleached and displayed as another monument to the Danes.

Holland bends down to pluck a wildflower, then stops himself.

***

Back at the palace, the letter is ready for him (doubtless full of platitudes that he’ll have to translate for the twins) and Emira is being served tea. As she sees Holland, she courteously gestures for him to take a cup. Holland freezes. For a second, the room seems higher, paler, colder. Cool white fingers wrapped around fine china, and isn’t it true that the best ceramics are fired from bone ash? The brand on his chest flares with its old pain. _Not yet,_ he thinks as her grip tightens. His head is spinning. Steel blue eyes examine him and then – _time to come home, pet_ – he blinks and Emira is there, frowning with concern.

“Lord Vosijk?” she begins, but he’s already rising, bowing, moving toward the door. 


End file.
